


Spar

by ProdigalQueer



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: A bit OOC?, Fluff, Harry is a sulky Arthur, Hartwin, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, secret agents wrestling, there's a boner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 05:33:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5035765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProdigalQueer/pseuds/ProdigalQueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The two men eye each other for a moment, and Eggsy tries not to wonder what Harry sees when he looks at him. But then, Harry's mouth curls up into a singularly ungentlemanly grin of his own. </p>
<p>“Quite,” he says, beaming, and then lunges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spar

**Author's Note:**

> Jeeze. It's been years since I've written a fanfic, but here I am again, because these two must be written about. This is a response to a lovely prompt by shipandmail on tumblr, and betaed by the delightful shadowsdaughter. Any and all remaining mistakes are wholly mine.

* * *

 

It's just by chance that Eggsy happens to be in the right place at the right time, really.  
  
It's halfway through the required 24-hour break period between missions, and he's in the HQ gym, throwing loose swings at the punching bag to warm up his stiff muscles. Bolivia had turned out a bit trickier than he expected, and his whole upper body complains in memory of the balcony-hang he'd had to hold for half an hour while his mark had held an unexpected meeting in the hotel room. Poor intel had made the timing off, and Merlin had come as close to apologizing as he ever did. But Eggsy wasn't bothered; it was part of the job.  
  
So he's standing on the mat, arms looping out in wide arcs at the red bag. It's technically poor form, but it's also slowly easing the burn in his shoulders. He'll tighten up the swings in a minute, he tells himself, just as he hears the door to the room clatter open with more force than usual. There's only a handful of people in the gym just then-- it's only Eggsy and a few of the Tristan recruits, who are all taking turns spotting at the weight benches. All of them pause and look over at the entrance, just as Eggsy does.  
  
Eggsy blinks at what he sees, then blinks again for good measure. But the image remains the same: Merlin practically manhandling Arthur into the room, both looking cross as lanced bulls. The color is high on Arthur's cheeks, and Merlin's whole forehead is creased into a scowl of singular irritation.

“I very much wish you'd unhand me,” Harry says tetchily, his voice carrying without care.  
  
Merlin obliges immediately, fairly shoving him forward further into the room. “ _Gladly._ Now,” He continues, eyeing Harry threateningly, “stay here and _occupy yourself_.”  
  
At that,  Harry draws himself up regally, straightening the collar of his dress shirt. “I'll thank you to remember--”  
  
Merlin actually _rolls his eyes_ , and Eggsy has to bite his knuckles to keep from letting a chortle out. “Yes yes, you Arthur, me Merlin. You'll suspend me, gut me, have me drawn and quartered, etcetera, etcetera.”  
  
“Merlin, for God's sake, I ought to be--”  
  
The Scot's face clouds, looking positively thunderous. “ _No,_ Harry, _no you oughtn't._ You are _Arthur_ and you are still _healing_ and your place is _here_ and not parachuting into Paraguay!”  
  
Harry's expression tightens at that, and it takes Eggsy a moment to place the look: Harry Hart is _sulking._ “This is utter tripe,” he says, his accent dripping posh.  
  
There's a moment of silence between the two men, the well-worn argument having reached it's usual conclusion. Eggsy aches a bit for Harry, knowing how it rankles him not to be allowed back in the field. _'Soon,'_ is what the staff in the medical bay keeps saying, but Harry's headaches still persist, and their eyes say _'maybe,'_ and Eggsy knows a deskbound future is not the one Harry hoped for. Everyone else is mostly just glad Harry _has_ a future, but the man himself remains unimpressed and querulous.  
  
“Aye,” Merlin acknowledges with a tip of his head. There's no pity in his voice-- he knows as well as Eggsy that Harry won't thank him for it. “But if you'd _please_ quit taking it out on the Handler Department, we'd be eternally grateful. Find someone to spar with, and abuse _them_ for a change, won't you?”  
  
At that, both men finally look around the room. Eggsy chins a nod at them, grinning, but Harry's eyes immediately go the petrified recruits, and begin to gleam with danger. The recruits all practice looking anywhere but at Arthur, some of their lips moving silently in what Eggsy can only assume is prayer.  
  
Harry takes one predatory step in their direction, and Merlin let's out an exasperated burst of air. “Ach, _no,_ Harry! Someone to _spar_ with, not _murder,_ you bleeding menace!” Harry's responding expression would be a pout on any other face, but Merlin just swings him roughly by the shoulders to face Eggsy, and gives another shove. “Go kill Galahad, if you like. He's so far behind on paperwork, it'll hardly make a difference.”  
  
Eggsy smiles sweetly at Merlin, unrepentant. “Cheers, guv!”  
  
Merlin narrows his eyes at Eggsy and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, nostrils flaring. Taking a moment, he gives a glare to the new recruits that promises torture, waiting until they all snap back to their previous workouts. Then he turns back to Eggsy. “Please, for the love of Christ, Eggsy, tire him out a bit.” He shoves Harry forward again another step just for good measure, and then turns and storms out of the gymnasium as quickly as he'd entered.  
  
Eggsy feels a low thrill of adrenaline rush through him as Harry stalks forward, already rolling up his crisp white sleeves. Eggsy doesn't for a moment think he'll have any sort of advantage in sweatpants and a t-shirt-- the suit pants and shirt and shoes (and probably even boxers) Harry's wearing are all Kingsman issued and perfect for fighting.  
  
And it's nice to have a mo' just to _look_ at Harry, Eggsy privately acknowledges to himself. It's been five months since V-day, four since Harry's return from the “dead,” and Eggsy won't admit to avoiding the man but...he hasn't seen him often in the intervening months. A shitload of missions abroad trying to settle the post V-day chaos has been largely to blame, of course, but in general...Eggsy just hasn't sought him out.  They've never really followed up on the last conversation they had before Kentucky, and at this point, Eggsy dreads it too much to invite it. Instead, he's focused on proving himself to be the best agent he can, to make up for failing the stupid fucking dog test, to forget the video footage of a church in the States and a gunshot and--  
  
“Galahad,” Harry acknowledges, warmly enough, the long lines of his body already taught in preparation. He actually smiles at Eggsy, and Eggsy finds himself grinning back. He's about to get his ass kicked, and he knows it, but it's going to be fucking _fun_.  
  
“Oy, Arthur,” He answers, letting his accent out as rough as he can, knowing it irks Harry just the slightest bit. “Ain't need to be pissin' off our handlers, yeah? Not lookin' to go dyin' in the field coz you've made 'em all go on strike.”  
  
Harry huffs air out his nose, annoyed, but his eyes crinkle at the corners a bit, too, and Eggsy feels his grin widening. He can smell Harry's obscenely expensive cologne, feel the heat of the older man's body. His own blood thrums in his veins, ready to fight.  
  
“I don't imagine it will come to that, thank you, Eggsy,” Harry answers airily, and they both move over to the sparring mat in unison.  
  
“Only coz Merlin's set me out as bait for your grumpy arse,” Eggsy jibes easily, his body settling into a prep stance with ease.  
  
The two men eye each other for a moment, and Eggsy tries not to wonder what Harry sees when he looks at him. But then, Harry's mouth curls up into a singularly ungentlemanly grin of his own. “Quite,” he says, beaming, and then lunges.  
  
Sparring with Harry is everything and nothing like Eggsy imagined (not that he had imagined it, thank you). Even months out of the field hasn't curbed the graceful skill and power of one of Kingsman's most elite agents. Harry is all smooth agility and lethal accuracy, and there are moments –breathing hard, shoulder pinned up painfully against the mat-- where Eggsy has to remember to actually fight back, instead of just _watching_.  
  
Eggsy doesn't do poorly for himself either, of course. He's got the blended skills all Kingsman agents are taught during training, but he mixes in his brawling style, too. He'd been nervous about it, during the recruitment process-- most everyone else had been previously trained in martial arts of some sort. And although Eggsy knew gymnastics, he wasn't trained in fighting, though he was no stranger to throwing fists. Still, he'd expected to catch shit for his lack of grace and refinery when they'd all first started in hand-to-hand, beside all the other snobbish, money-trained pricks.  
  
To his surprise, though, Merlin had seemed almost eager to work with Eggsy's existing scrapping style. Roxy told him she figured it was a bit refreshing for Merlin to work with someone who actually knew how to fight, instead of just the theory behind fighting. Eggsy's style'd kept everyone else on their toes, and his skills at ducking and weaving were even sometimes called out as an example to follow. (Eggsy never thought he'd have anything to actually thank Dean for.)  
  
So yes, Eggsy holds his own, thank you, and he might even be doing a bit better for himself if he didn't keep getting so distracted by how fucking _ace_ Harry is at this. The posh bastard's hair is still perfectly in place, seven minutes in. Eggsy makes sure, with his next leg-sweep and shoulder-pin combo, to ruffle it as much as possible. Harry spares a moment to shoot him a truly annoyed look at this, before rolling Eggsy off him, easy as you please.  
  
They spare no time to exchange words during the match. Most likely, Harry doesn't because he's too much of a gentleman, but Eggsy can't because he's panting too hard to speak. He can hear the blood pounding in his ears, feel the warm burn of his muscles, the mat sweat-sticky beneath them, Harry all over him, the scent of the older man's cologne now intermingling with the musk of fighting. They're about ten minutes in before Eggsy realizes he's rock hard inside his sweats.    
  
Harry's on top of him _(of course)_ , with Eggsy's hands pinned across his chest in a truly uncomfortable way. His whole weight is leaned into Eggsy, keeping him trapped against the mat, his hip wedged between Eggsy's legs _(of_ fucking _course)_ to keep him from twisting his legs out of the hold. He rolls down against Eggsy's trunk, trying to finish the pin, and Eggsy instinctively thrusts back _up_ against Harry's hip, and for the briefest instant, they both freeze.  
  
Harry's eyes widen the tiniest bit, his mouth already slack as he huffs out quick breaths. Eggsy feels his _own_ eyes widen hugely, and between gulps of air, a heartfelt “Ah, god _damn_ it,” slips roughly out of his mouth.  
  
Then the moment of shock between them passes in the space of two heartbeats, and Harry again rocks in to finish the pin, his hand coming down with all his weight behind it. Eggsy rolls slightly, intending to break the hold, but the rhythm is off—they're out of sync now, and Eggsy can't even blink before Harry's hand crashes down against his jaw, and darkness closes over him with a snap.  
  
*  
  
When Eggsy comes back to consciousness, he does so forcefully. His head aches, his jaw is on fucking _fire_ , and there is someone looming over him. Long experience has him flinching back, his hands covering his head, a “Sorry, _sorry,_ ” slurring out of his swollen mouth, just in case that helps, though it rarely ever has.  
  
But the hands that touch him are gentle, lowering his arms back to his sides, and settling him back down against what Eggsy slowly realizes is still the sparring mat in the gym. He blinks a few times, and Harry's face snaps back into focus, looking pinched.  
  
“Don't _apologize_ ,” he says to Eggsy, actually sounding upset. His left hand is still pressing Eggsy's shoulder into the mat, but his right comes up to prod gently at the agent's jaw.  
  
Eggsy hisses in pain, but doesn't pull away. “Jus' habit, bruv,” he says, dismissively, holding his mouth as still as possible. It hurts like a bitch.  
  
“ _Still,_ ” Harry responds fretfully, and then audibly bites off whatever else he planned on saying, choosing instead to keep massaging Eggsy's jaw. “I don't believe I've broken it.”  
  
“Nah, not broken,” Eggsy reassures confidently. “don't hurt bad enough.”  
  
This doesn't actually seem to make Harry feel better, and Eggsy remembers that Harry probably has his medical chart from infancy fuckin' _memorized,_ and he knows Eggsy's not a rookie with this. But they're spies for fuck's sake, and whatever happened in Eggsy's past, they both know goddamn well there'll be more broken bones in the future, and Eggsy gives him a fierce glare to remind him so.  
  
Thankfully, the older man says nothing, just gives his head a single shake, and keeps touching the line of Eggsy's jaw with practiced fingers.  Eggsy shifts, intending to sit up now that the room isn't spinning, but Harry's hand presses on his shoulder again, firmly.  
  
“Don't move, yet. I've sent the recruits down to medical to fetch someone.”  
  
“Oi, fer fuck's sake, Harry, it's nothin' but a bruise!” Eggsy fairly wails this, his face heating up in embarrassment. “I can bloody walk there, not tha' I need to go at all!” But the words come out a bit thick, because his jaw is quite swollen-- Harry's hit had landed beautifully-- and Harry's mouth tightens in an expression Eggsy can't place.  So he stays still against the mat, and lets Harry continue to massage his jaw, the man's other hand pressing warm against his shoulder, a thumb absently sweeping against Eggsy's collar bone.  
  
 _Huh,_ Eggsy thinks to himself, trying not feel anything but faintly pleased.  
  
He can't stop the slight smile that curls up on his face, despite the way it makes his jaw throb. For a moment, he thinks about making a joke to Harry about there being plenty of _other_ ways to say no-thank-you to a bloke's stiffy, but Harry's fretful figure doesn't look to be in the mood to be teased. Eggsy's not really ready to go there, anyway.  
  
Instead, he says, “Merlin's gonna be pissin' mad.” The grin widens across his sore jaw, but the pain doesn't matter, because Harry's shoulders relax a bit.

“I did exactly what he said,” he answers loftily. “I hardly _killed_ anyone.” His dark eyes hold Eggsy's own, warmly. “Just a bruise.” If there's a slight question mark on the end of the sentence, Eggsy's not going to call him on it.  
  
“Oh, _now_ it's just a bruise,” He scoffs instead, and Harry actually smiles, as the gym doors burst open again, and three medics hustle in, kitted up for full triage.

They're full-out pissed when when they see Eggsy _not_ dying on the mat. There's peevish muttering, and not so gentle hands against his jaw then, but it really doesn't bother Eggsy much. It really doesn't bother Eggsy _at all,_ actually, because Harry's thumb is still sweeping against his collarbone, and Harry's dark eyes are holding his own, and Harry's soft mouth is smiling faintly at him.

 

And for the first time in months, Eggsy feels like he's home.

 


End file.
